by Jack Barsky
“It’s like we’ve traveled back in time to the Middle Ages,” I said, leaning toward Günter as we rode in the back of a truck through a village.
On our second day in Romania, one of our rides dropped us off in a small village in front of a ramshackle building made of discolored bricks. The wooden sign over the front door said that it was a restaurant, but judging by the weatherworn facade and a straw roof in desperate need of repair, my expectations for the quality of food we might find there were not very high. Still, we had been on the road since early morning and both Günter and I were hungry and thirsty.
As we stood in the street and considered our options, we saw some shady characters entering and leaving the establishment. I looked at Günter, and he looked at me.
“Should we?” I asked.
“Why not? The sign says restaurant, so they should have something to eat and drink.”
We cautiously opened the front door and found a roomful of swarthy and unkempt Romanian villagers who appeared to be having a drinking contest—saluting one another with shot glasses containing a clear liquid that they quickly tossed down. The room was buzzing with energy, but as soon as the revelers saw us standing at the doorway, the place fell silent. They looked at us with hooded eyes, as if to say, You’d better have a reason for coming in here, boys.
There was no turning back now.
Günter and I dropped our backpacks against the front wall and settled in at a nearby table. There were forks, spoons, and dull knives attached to the table with chains to prevent casual theft.
“We should have brought a Romanian dictionary,” I said, staring at the grease-stained single-page menu.
“Just pick something,” Günter replied.
I waved over the hostess, a wrinkled, dark-skinned woman of indeterminate age, who was wearing a short apron over an ankle-length black dress. Pointing at one of the items on the menu, I held up two fingers and nodded in Günter’s direction to make it clear I was ordering for both of us. Without a word, the woman disappeared through a doorway that I assumed led to the kitchen.
At that point I noticed one of the locals edging closer to where we were seated.
“What does this guy want?” I said.
“Why don’t you ask him?” Günter responded facetiously.
“He’s staring at the pack of Kents in your shirt pocket,” I said. “Why don’t you give him one?”
With a sigh, Günter parted with his last American cigarette, which the young man received with an appreciative nod. But instead of lighting up, he began to pass the precious gift carefully around the room. Everyone was allowed to admire, fondle, and sniff the cigarette before it was returned to the original recipient, who tucked it gingerly behind his left ear.
The waitress arrived with the food, a barely edible dark-brown mash. She returned a minute later with a couple of shot glasses filled with the clear liquid and set them in front of us.
“Did you order this stuff?” Günter asked.
“Are you crazy—schnapps in the morning?”
Across the room, I saw the fellow with the cigarette behind his ear raise his glass toward us and say something in Romanian.
“Looks like your new friend bought us the drinks,” I said to Günter.
We returned the salute and bravely knocked back the horrible-tasting liquid, which was probably a version of rakia, a fruit brandy common in the Balkans. We were gamely forcing down a few more spoonfuls of our meals when a second round of shot glasses appeared.
“We better get out of here while we still can,” I said. “I think another round of this stuff will make me dizzy.”
I dropped enough money on the table to cover the cost of the food, and we picked up our backpacks and moved toward the exit, smiling and waving at the rowdy crowd. Outside, we hiked down the dusty road at an expedited pace, glancing back from time to time to make sure we were not being followed.
Two days later, we once again witnessed the magical power of American cigarettes.
The bridge over the Danube River connecting the border towns of Giurgiu, Romania, and Ruse, Bulgaria, was called the Friendship Bridge. However, friendship was not in the air as we sought to cross.
As we traversed the 2.2-kilometer bridge on foot, we faced one last Romanian border guard, who had planted himself in the middle of the road, waving a bayoneted rifle in the air.
Somewhat intimidated, I said to Günter, “What in the world does this guy want?”
“Beats me,” he replied. “He keeps pointing at your back pocket. Do you have your wallet back there?”
“Yes, but I don’t have any more Romanian money. Do you think he’s trying to collect a personal border-crossing fee?”
“I don’t know,” said Günter. “But I have an idea.”
He reached into his shirt pocket and handed the guard the Kent box, which he had filled with a few awful Romanian cigarettes.
Thinking he was getting a gift of prized American smokes, the guard’s face lit up with an ear-to-ear grin, exposing several gaps in his tobacco-stained teeth. We smiled back at him and walked briskly toward the Bulgarian side of the bridge.
As soon as we passed the sign welcoming us to Bulgaria, we looked back across the bridge in time to see the Romanian border guard discover our deception. With a look of pure disgust, he threw the pack of “Kents” onto the roadway and began stomping on it and cursing us. We quickly turned and continued on our way into Ruse, narrowly escaping what could have become a three-nation border incident.
After visiting the capital city of Sofia, we turned toward our final destination, the Black Sea city of Burgas. Along the way, we visited the Rila Monastery and took a three-day hike through the Rila Mountains. When we finally arrived in Burgas, Günter and I congratulated each other for succeeding on this adventure. We knew of no one else who had even attempted such a journey. We would have much to brag about once we were back in Jena.
From Burgas, we made our return trip by train, taking two days to reach the university. We returned totally exhausted but fully tanned and bearded. With only two days left to recover before the fall semester began, I took the time to send a lengthy, detailed report of the trip to my mother, who was delighted to read about my travels. She even shared the report with Frau Greiner, my first-grade teacher.
On September 6, I reported back to the university, where I now had a permanent lab space at the Institute for Photochromism, headed by Professor Pätzold, my all-time favorite instructor. There I would conduct original research that would eventually lead to a thesis on the way to the coveted diploma.
Like me, my fellow students had chosen various specialties within the chemistry department, and we were now dispersed across multiple buildings on campus. As a result, we rarely saw one another anymore. One day, as I walked toward the cafeteria at lunchtime, I spotted Edeltraud, who had been part of my lab group for the past three years. I waved at her from across the road and was ready to continue on my way. However, she crossed the street and planted herself right in front of me.
“Albrecht,” she said in an unusually sharp tone of voice, “we need to talk.”
“Do you need help with something?” I asked innocently.
“I sure do,” she responded. “Let’s go have a seat on the bench over there.”
As soon as we were seated, she blurted out, “I’m pregnant, and I’m 100 percent sure that you’re the father!”
I immediately felt the blood drain from my face, and I was glad I was sitting down. Earlier that year, following a lively party with our fellow students, Edeltraud and I had spent the night together. She was now informing me of the consequences.
“Are you sure?” I managed to ask after a long pause.
“Absolutely. I’ve already been to the doctor.”
The next pause was even longer. A child and possibly a marriage to a woman I liked but wasn’t in love with was not part of my plan for the future. I simply wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.
When I finall
y raised my eyes, I noticed a look of strong determination on Edeltraud’s face. She was going to be a mother, marriage or not! We both knew that the East German state was very supportive of single mothers, and there was even a dorm at the university for women with small children. Edeltraud would be able to finish her studies, albeit with an additional burden.
“Of course I will pay child support,” I said haltingly. I felt awkward and defeated—and I realized I had nothing more to say. We parted ways with everything unresolved.
I didn’t see Edeltraud again until after our son, Günther, was born. I went to visit her and the baby in her dorm room after being notified of the birth by a mutual friend. I held little Günther, but I felt distant from him and no more ready to be a father than I had before. Rather than face up to the situation and work things out with the mother of my child—who also hadn’t planned for this—I took the approach of a callous coward and simply walked away. It was possibly the most shameful moment of my life.
It was interesting to note that the Communist Party, which usually paid close attention to the moral behavior of its members, never said a word to me about this situation. Apparently I was too much of an up-and-coming star to be pushed off the pedestal they were erecting for me.
During her pregnancy, Edeltraud wrote a letter to my mother, who subsequently went to visit her in Jena. This led to the establishment of a relationship between the two and allowed my mother to be a grandmother to Günther when he was a young boy. But the relationship between my mother and Edeltraud eventually soured because my mother proved to be—surprise!—too bossy.
After college, Edeltraud got married and was fortunate to find a husband who raised Günther as if he were his own. I’m confident that this man was a much better father than I would have been.
For my thesis, I had chosen to study a number of indigo-type dyes that change their configuration, and consequently their color (mostly from blue to red and red to blue), when irradiated with light of a certain wavelength. At the time, photochromic chemicals were thought to be the future of computer storage, but that hope was never realized.
After six months of experimentation, I recorded my findings and had my paper typed professionally. I then submitted the document to a committee, and at 2:00 p.m. on February 1, 1972, I appeared before a panel of sixteen faculty members to defend my thesis.
After forty minutes, the results were unanimous. I received an A for my final grade and graduated summa cum laude four months ahead of my class. It had already been made clear that I would be hired by the university as an assistant professor immediately after graduation. The timing of my graduation was accelerated to allow me to take over as first secretary of the Communist youth organization of the chemistry section, an assignment that required about half of my time.
Even though I was done with the program, I occasionally attended lectures by Professor Hartman, who taught organic chemistry and gave additional lectures on special subjects from time to time. On one of those occasions, he embarrassed me greatly.
“Herr Dittrich, would you please come to the front?” he asked. I felt awkward, but at least I was wearing my favorite rust-colored jacket with the Party pin on the lapel.
I was wondering if Herr Hartman was going to test me, but instead he launched into what amounted to a grand tribute.
“Class, on behalf of the entire teaching staff of the chemistry section, I want to express my appreciation for this fine young man. He is smart, a hard worker, and he is a great leader, someone I expect will make great contributions to our country and world communism.”
I wanted to run out of the classroom and hide somewhere, but the hearty applause of my fellow students helped me get over what I thought was going to be a very awkward moment.
I was now on a path to receive my doctorate around the time of my twenty-sixth birthday. And if I wanted it, I was also on a path to fulfill my dream of becoming a tenured professor at one of the best universities in Europe. But, of course, there was another opportunity drawing my attention. Herman and I continued to meet, and I would soon be faced with the most important decision of my young life.
“BERLIN WANTS TO SEE YOU,” Herman said when he arrived at the safe house. This piqued my interest, but I waited for him to continue.
“We are getting close to decision time. Can you get a leave of absence from the university for three weeks?”
I sat down on the back of the couch and thought a moment.
“Sure, but only if I get some kind of official document,” I said.
“No problem.”
Herman showed up for our next meeting with an official requisition ordering me to report to a military installation near Berlin for three weeks of extraordinary defense training.
As we discussed the details, I felt my blood flowing with excitement.
“What can you tell me?” I asked Herman as we sat at a small table in the kitchen.
“You’ll meet with agents in Berlin and possibly be introduced to one or two senior officers,” he said. “And for this assignment, you will have a clandestine meeting with an unknown counterpart in a big city. I’ll give you a place, a time, and a passcode that you’ll need to memorize.”
I knew this was my first opportunity to enter into the murky, but ever so enticing, world of undercover operations. There would be no fallback plan. If I missed the meeting or messed up the details, the entire trip would have to be scuttled, with uncertain consequences for my career as a secret agent. Punctuality was never a problem for me so I had no doubt that I would make the meeting. I’ve often jokingly said that I have a clock where others have a heart.
I took the train to East Berlin and traveled to the meeting site in the Karlshorst district of the city. It turned out to be a residential area, and there was little traffic. My contact and I would both carry a copy of the East German sports weekly in our left hand as a sign of recognition.
At the appointed time, I approached the street corner, identified my contact, and greeted him with the passcode sequence: “Excuse me, I am looking for Lindenstraße.”
“Is that where Helmut lives?” he responded with the corresponding code.
Having established our credentials, we introduced ourselves as “Dieter” and “Boris.”
Boris was a stocky man of average height, in his late forties, with a typically round Russian face. He proved to be much like Herman, even-tempered and very kind and friendly.
He walked me to his car, and we discussed our meeting schedule for the next three weeks. We would meet every three days at a specified time and location in the Lichtenberg section of Berlin. He then told me to take two days to familiarize myself with the city and find accommodations—and that the KGB would pay the rent.
I quickly found a private house where I could rent a room and spent the remainder of my free time exploring my new surroundings.
Ah, Berlin, our great capital and a metropolis of international prominence. This was where the action was—and I was here!
By 1972, parts of East Berlin had been freed from some of the architectural constraints of the Stalin era, which dominated the main boulevard, the Karl Marx Allee. In particular, the Alexanderplatz, a large public square at the center of the city, had undergone a massive overhaul and now boasted the second-tallest TV tower in the world (which is still the tallest freestanding building in Germany today), a world clock, an ornate fountain, and other architectural details that gave this part of the city a certain modern feel not found anywhere else in the GDR.
A visitor from the West would quickly notice the lack of a human touch—there was no commerce, no entertainment, nothing to do but wander about and perhaps sit at the edge of the fountain for a chat—but for those of us in the East, Alexanderplatz was a sign of real progress and a source of great pride. As soon as twilight approached, however, the people quickly scattered, leaving the square a spooky, bleak expanse of lifeless monuments in a scarcely lit city that seemed to draw inward as darkness descended.
D
uring my three weeks in Berlin, Boris and I spent many hours discussing the details of an undercover existence. He emphasized that the mechanics of spying could all be learned, but the psychology was a different matter.
“You will have to disappear from your current life, and nobody—not even your mother—will know where you’ve gone. As far as most people are concerned, you will have vanished into thin air. Wherever you go, you will be in hostile territory. You will have to befriend your enemies and pretend to be one of them. Communication with Moscow will always be indirect and will always take time, and you will have to make many decisions on the spot without the benefit of advice.”
I listened intently, nodding my head occasionally as Boris studied how I took in the information. Looking at a passing streetcar filled with East Berliners, I realized that normal life was not the path for me.
“Lastly—and I want to be quite honest about this—a large percentage of undercover spies get caught and go to jail. Could you handle this? Are you hesitant or afraid? Think about all of that, and try to put yourself into that scenario. This should be the very foundation of your decision.”
As I absorbed these words, I was surprised at the lack of fear I felt.
Before we parted company, Boris reached into his briefcase and pulled out a stack of West German magazines. My eyes widened at the sight. I had thumbed through plenty of Western periodicals with Herman, but he had always taken them with him when he left.
“Read them,” Boris said. “There will be more.”
I loved reading those publications. Unlike our magazines and newspapers in the East, they were colorful and entertaining. I chalked up their anti-Communist rhetoric to capitalist propaganda and viewed my reading as gathering useful information about real life on the other side of the wall.